“Enjoy the—”
“Lotion me,” he asked. Though his tone made it sound more like a command.
Sloan turned a palm up. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any.” She motioned toward the other women. “They might have some, and I’m sure they’d happily help.”
“And you wouldn’t,” he countered.
While she sputtered, something she didn’t recall ever having done in her life, he reached across her to a side table and plucked a tube from a decorative bowl. His body came so close to hers the heat he radiated seeped into her marrow. As he retreated, the dusting of dark hair on his chest tickled her arm.
“Here,” he said, slapping the lotion into her hand.
He sat on the end of the chaise, elbows on his knees. Hunching didn’t diminish his presence in the least. In fact, it drew Sloan’s attention to the sloping topography of his chest and the spread of his shoulders, which dwarfed the chair under him. When she didn’t move he tilted his chin up and directed her behind him with a thick arm.
She circled him in a wide arc, but surrendered, tucking behind him on the hard wood. Clinically, like she treated a field wound, Sloan uncapped the sunscreen, deposited a dollop on her palm and began rubbing it onto his back. From his nape she worked her way out over his shoulders, denying the tingle the friction created below her waist. Until he leaned into her touch.
Her belly skittered, then churned at the absurdity. Of all the horrible things she’d done in the name of greater good, this topped them all. Because a small twisted part of her enjoyed the closeness to Baine. There were layers of deception, anger, and betrayal between them, but hope hid underneath like a tiny, dingy marble under a landfill of trash. And wasn’t it ironic that he’d been the one to instill that hope inside her.
She’d been a terrified girl in a haunted house. Alone in the universe. Her loved ones’ dead bodies ripped from her clenched fingers. Trapped as a slave. Utterly hopeless.
Then one day a boy, bigger and older than she by a few years, she’d guessed, had wandered into the basement where she’d been washing linens and asked her to play. When she’d declined, he’d put the bag of marbles in his pocket and silently stepped up to the basin, grabbed a napkin, and scrubbed the cloth against the washboard. For one week he showed up, helped her with her chores, then went about his business. The next week they’d hurried through the chores, and then actually played. He taught her how to shoot marbles, and had even given her one the last time she’d seen him.
But they weren’t kids any longer. And there was no hope for what he’d become.
Sloan snapped the cap closed. “All done.”
Before she could stand, he spun to face her. One brow furrowed. “How is it a woman like you ends up in a situation like this?”
“A woman like me?”
“You could choose another line of work. Toned as you are, you could be a fitness instructor.”
“Sometimes we choose our fate,” she said. “Other times it’s chosen for us.”
The cleft between his dark brows deepened and his jaw clenched then released. “And sometimes it’s what we make it.”
Sloan eased back, suddenly aware that his face was less than a foot from her own. Quietly, against all of her better judgment, she asked, “Is that what you’re doing, making your fate?”
His lips parted, but no words came. She recognized motion by the door, but when she saw Kobi with his arm draped over Nena, dismissed it as a threat. Anticipation jingled her nerves as she waited for his response. She didn’t know what she expected from him. He didn’t owe her, nor the hooker she played, any explanation. But damn that hope.
Abruptly, her head was jerked left and cold lips like those of a dead fish sealed over her own. Sloan clutched fistfuls of the towel, fighting the instinct to pummel the man’s gut. His tongue dampened the edge of her mouth.
“Sod off, Ross,” Baine swore.
The words were quiet, but held a threat that caught the man’s notice. He broke away from her lips. It was all she could do to keep from scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I had her first,” Kobi Ross boasted. “And we have some unfinished business.” Hiking a thumb toward the other escort, he added, “I won’t leave you empty handed.”
The redhead winked at Baine, and reached for his arm. “Let’s go have some fun.”
“No. She’s mine,” Baine said, his voice flat and his intense glare never leaving Kobi.
Sloan’s stupid heart jumped at his words.
In defiance, Kobi’s hand bit into Sloan’s chin and he wrenched it up. Before Sloan had a chance to remind herself not to react, Baine’s arm shot out. A choking sound gurgled in Kobi’s throat as Baine’s hand encircled the column of the man’s neck. Kobi’s eyes widened. His hands flew to Baine’s wrist. He struggled to wrench the hand away. The heels of his shoes heaved against the ground and his body bucked.
“If you want to continue breathing, I suggest you take the redhead and be on your merry way.” With that Baine released his grip.
Kobi stumbled back, heaving in air. Nena placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and he slapped it away. The look on his face oscillated between embarrassment and pure hatred as he stomped past them, the other quirk-browed women, and then through the back gate.
Baine grabbed her hand and pulled Sloan off the lounger, not giving her time to collect her covering as it loosened in the upheaval. He moved with authority. Chin up. Shoulders back. He aimed for the manor, drawing her behind him. The towel fell, entwined her legs and pitched her off balance. Still, he refused to slow. To keep from meeting the stone pavers with her face, Sloan yielded her grip on the fabric.
Through the threshold of the rear entrance, he spun on her. His wide chest crowded her in, until her back met the cold wall. Sloan had no idea what to say or do. So, she kept her mouth shut. Had the whole scene been a tiny turf war between the two men? It was the most logical explanation. But Baine regarded her now with nearly as much hostility as he’d forced upon Kobi. His dark expression made the young girl inside her vanish and the warrior surge forward, smacking a fist to her armored chest.
But, just as swiftly, her inner warrior stumbled.
The palm of his hand glided over the slope of her chin, warming the abused skin. His thumb scrubbed over her lips. Once. Twice. The rough pad of his finger stung her sensitive flesh again. Then he inclined his head. Baine’s face hovered so close to hers stubble rasped her cheek. Sloan breathed him in on a gasp. Her head spun from the redolence.
He stilled for a moment, save for his breathing, which seemed almost pained, the inhale and exhale ragged. His hand slid up the nape of her neck. His fingers wove in her hair and tugged. Unwilling to fight him, her chin raised to meet his gaze, which honed in on her mouth.
His lips covered hers. The pressure of him was unrelenting. He pulled her in to the kiss with his hand and pinned her to the wall with his body. Warmth engulfed her. From the tips of her lips to the soles of her feet, the chill she’d harbored earlier scorched in Baine’s onslaught. This was no embrace. It was an out and out attack on the tiny space inside her mind where things made sense. Where everything was good versus bad. Black and white. In this space she was a tool for justice and Baine was part and parcel with the enemy. No matter their youthful friendship. No matter how good his mouth tasted.
And Lord, if sin had a taste she’d found it.
His thick lips parted then bracketed her lower lip. Balmy wetness soothed her sensitive skin, but enlivened a nature she had no idea existed inside her. A need so carnal and base screamed to life. Unbidden, Sloan’s hands groped Baine’s hot, hard lats. To her shame, she did not push him away, but held him in place while her body arched against his.
Her lips muffled his curse an instant before his other hand smoothed over the length of her neck. Where his grip on Kobi had meant to harm the other man, it only tormented Sloan, hovering just above her heaving breasts. Her whole body tingled with awareness, but not in the usual way.
This had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with yearning.
A moan of anguish or desire—of which, she couldn’t be entirely sure—breeched her lips. His other hand, which had been still at his side, ran up her thigh. The roughness of his palm heated her from the inside out. Baine’s fingers bit into the bare bottom revealed by the bathing suit. In response her body quickened, nipples tightening, core clenching.
“Ahem. Might I offer you some towels? You look a bit wet.”
Again Baine cursed. This time, however, the words came through loud and clear. He growled it out as he broke the kiss. With one hand he held her to the wall while he created a gap between them. The sudden withdrawal served the same purpose as a bucket of ice water. In less than a second the world around her refocused.
Behind Baine, Lawrence, the butler, stood, a pile of towels balanced neatly in his hand. The set of his mouth almost disguised his mirth, but the sparkle in his blue eyes gave him away. Once again, Sloan was intrigued by Lawrence’s stealth and uncanny timing, but before she could attempt to figure the man out, Baine turned on him.
He snatched a towel from the pile. “That’ll be all.”
“Are you sure I can’t interest either of you in a drink?”
“Yes.” Baine’s tone bordered on harsh, but he seemed to rein it in when he turned back toward her.
Lawrence bowed his head then retreated down the hallway as quietly as he’d arrived. As much as Sloan wanted to study the servant, Baine’s brilliant eyes owned her attention. They didn’t flit about her face, but bore into her eyes. Searching. She trembled under the scrutiny. Actually freaking trembled like a rabbit staring past the wolf’s teeth down his throat. His size didn’t intimidate her. Though in the few times she’d seen him all grown up, he’d used it for that distinct purpose. His searching eyes scared her because they saw too much. Elicited too much.
He leaned in and draped the terrycloth sheet around her. His breath was hot on her ear when he whispered, “You’re so much more than a dime trick whore. See you tonight.”
While her breathing stilled in her chest he turned and walked away.
Close Contact Volumes
About the Author
Megan Mitcham was born and raised among the live oaks and shrimp boats of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where her enormous family still calls home. She attended college at the University of Southern Mississippi where she received a bachelor's degree in curriculum, instruction, and special education. For several years Megan worked as a teacher in Mississippi. She married and moved to South Carolina and began working for an international non-profit organization as an instructor and co-director.
In 2009 Megan fell in love with books. Until then, books had been a source for research or the topic of tests. But one day she read Mercy by Julie Garwood. And oh, Mercy, she was hooked!
The USA Today Bestselling Author lives in Southern Arkansas where she pens heart pounding romantic thriller novels and window-steaming erotic romance. For information on releases and giveaways subscribe at meganmitcham.com!
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Red (Close Contact Book 3) Page 3
